


Damsel for Distress

by Writerboy (Hobbitrocious)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: BAMF Mary Morstan, Community: shkinkmeme, Damsel in Distress, Dirty Thoughts, Gen, Protective John Watson, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Writerboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in April 2011 for a SHkinkmeme prompt:<br/>"One fine evening, while John is taking her home after a lovely show and then a wonderful dinner Mary is witness to a domestic dispute between an upper class husband and wife - that turns violent. BAMF!Mary going after the guy and pummeling him."</p><p>Includes a twist at the end I hope you'll all enjoy. Some tags omitted to keep the surprise a surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damsel for Distress

Watson's hands rubbed, firmly and lovingly, over Mary's shoulders after he placed her cloak. She thanked him with a small but shining smile, and the two stepped out of the restaurant and onto the street.

"Might we walk?" Mary asked, just as Watson was about to hail a driver. "It's such a nice night."

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Watson agreed. They set off down the cobblestones to enjoy the crisp evening air.

They were quite close to home by the time Mary broke their happy silence. She pointed her folded parasol gently in the direction of another doting couple lazily winding through the park ahead of them.

"You know," Mary murmured, her eyes lighting up the way they always did when she knew she said something shocking, "though a bustle is meant to preserve a lady's dignity, the ways are plentiful to determine just how endowed she is behind."

Watson's step faltered, and Mary gleamed at his sharp intake of breath. They both focused, unnoticed, at the back of the mysterious lady's dress. It was an extravagant but understated burgundy, and, like Mary's own evening wear, had a moderate bustle that rustled with each sway of her delicate hips.

"Pretend," May whispered as they gained the slightest distance on the other couple, "that you're observing, the way Holmes does. When you look, what do you see? What can you tell about them?"

Watson cleared his throat, quietly as possible, before returning her question in a hushed voice.

"They are courting, not married," he said. "They're not daring to get too close just yet, though they may if we leave them to find a secluded spot." He blushed a little, remembering his present company, but Mary's knowing nod spurred him on.

"The man is obviously strong," he continued. Unthinkingly, he moved his arm from Mary's waist to her shoulders, an incrementally more protective stance. "Which may be a quality the woman admires. Hard to tell from here, but I daresay she's nearly as tall as I am. The poor dear might have had sorry luck finding romance with an average chap."

"Very good," Mary agreed. "Now..." She licked her lips. "What do you think her physique is like under all that stuffy clothing?"

Watson, nervous and excited at Mary's talk, halted for only one moment. It was enough of a pause that the pair in front of them took notice. The strange couple showed minimal acknowledgment of the scuff of Watson's shoe, but pressed closer as they walked.

John and Mary fell in behind again, a little slower. Watson felt a sharp nudge at his side and found Mary peering at him with stern expectation.

"Ah..." Watson faltered, then followed Mary's gaze to the other woman's posterior.

"She's relatively tall, we know that much," Mary prodded.

"Yes... Well, ehm, her corset, for starters? It looks to sit a bit low for her, suggesting her otherwise obvious slim hips. The way she walks is evidence as well; the effort she makes to sashay is something a woman with wide, load-bearing hips wouldn't think twice about, and the movement would be a bit more... circular." Watson concentrated again, trying to narrow his mind to only the pertinent, scientific details. He failed miserably.

Watson realised what Mary meant about undressing the bottom with his eyes. Now, with a clear frame of the lady's hips in mind, it was not so hard to judge how much fabric one would have to peel away to reach the mound of her actual rump. If Watson's guess was correct, this particular morsel sported a fine, round bottom whose mass sat generally higher than most. A splendid arse, especially for such a slight, slender beauty.

Not that they'd caught more than a glimpse of the woman's face, but, with a body like that, she could have been a horse and still had a hundred suitors lined up at her door.

Her back door, most definitely.

"And do you suppose he's really interested in _her_?" Mary queried.

The hand that was not embracing Mary clenched tighter around Watson's cane. "Most certainly not," he huffed in admission, "unless he's of rarer morals than he looks."

Indeed, the strong man's clothing was misleading; his suit was most likely the best of his travelling clothes, not quite the formal dinner dress expected to accompany his lady's high style.

Mary gasped this time as the couple moved yet intimately closer, and the broad stranger's hand slid from hip to bustle, and then beneath.

"Bold, isn't he?" Watson observed with some disparagement.

"Scandalously so," Mary breathed.

The difference in pace had put more distance between the two couples, and the Watsons watched from just out of earshot now.

A large, meaty hand squeezed once around a buttcheek, proving its shape was as firm as Watson expected, then drifted up again to guide the dame by her hips as the couple turned down an unlit path. Intrigued, both Mary and John moved wordlessly, as one, to follow.

The lady carried herself stiffly as they approached a dead end made up of brick fence with impenetrable hedge perpendicular to either side. The light of the newly risen moon was barely enough for Watson and his wife to see by from where they gawked from behind the cover of a tree. They watched in fascination as the woman rounded nervously on her courtier when she was at the wall and could go no further. It was difficult to see from such a distance how flustered she was or was not.

What played out before them was like a pantomime. The woman, plentily handsome from the front as from the back, was undoubtedly keen on going elsewhere. Her host for the night had other, more dubious plans. He had her wispy body crushed against the solid wall after less than a minute of bickering, and was about to work his fingers down her lace-lined collar.

Before Watson could grab her and stop her, Mary was storming out from the cover of the grove. Brandishing her parasol at the handle with both hands, she took a running start and swung it mightily at the back of the brute's head. The big man lurched forward from the force of the blow, his arm wrenching down and splitting the neck of his date's dress open.

Still pinioned, the accosted lady clutched at her loose fabric and mewled, "Victor!"

As the man caught his footing, Mary reared her parasol for another whack. Before he could fully turn to face her, Mary had it sailing in for a jab to his middle, then rounded it for a full swing, ending, backed by all her strength, with a powerful slam into his groin.

A low, croaking groan filled the air as the brute fell, clutching himself, among the moss and dead leaves.

When it was certain that her foe was not in any condition to rise, Mary relaxed. Watson rushed to her, immediately clasping her to him and checking that she was alright.

Against the fence, the abused darling shrank back and kept her head bowed beneath her hat. The ribbons hanging over her eyes quavered.

"Here, Miss." Watson stepped forward and offered, "I'm terribly sorry about all this... May we take you home? I'm sure... I'm sure you'd feel better with some company, this late at night?"

Mary pursed her lips, anxious in sympathy for the woman even though her assailant was down for the count.

The poor thing clutched at her handbag repeatedly, looking back and forth as though to determine which, between John and Mary, it would be easier to dart past.

"Really," Mary tried, "We mean you no harm. We merely wished to come to your ai--"

The burgundy lady apparently judged Watson the easier target, and shot off to that side. However, she skimmed too close and Watson was able to snatch her arm.

He looked into her eyes earnestly. "Please, Madam, if you'd just--"

Shocked, Watson let go of her arm as quickly as he'd grabbed it. He let her go and she ran off into the night without another pause. The rustling of her skirts faded quickly, and Mary and Watson were left alone with the unconscious Victor. They turned, stricken, to watch as the lady fled.

"That was..." Mary clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle her hearty laugh.

Watson ushered her toward the better-lit part of the path. "I'm sure he has his reasons," Watson said distractedly, wondering how this would come up at his lunch meeting tomorrow. "Let's not spoil his cover."


End file.
